"A little girl?" queried the cross-eyed man. "No, a boy," returned the woman. "Of course-a boy," repeated the cross-eyed man; young boy,-not very old?" "About that age," said the woman; "what about him?" "Madam, do not get excited," pursued the cross-eyed man; "be brave and calm." 'Mercy on me!" exclaimed the woman, in surprise; 'what's the matter?" 'Gently, gently," said the cross-eyed man, in a soothing manner; "restrain yourself. Did not that little boy go out to play this morning?" 'Yes, yes," said the woman, excitedly; "what-why-is there anything the matter?" "Is there not a railroad track crosses the next street?" queried the cross-eyed man, in a solemn voice. "Yes, oh yes," ejaculated the woman, in great fear; “oh, tell me what has happened! what-" "Be calm," interrupted the cross-eyed man, soothingly; "be brave-keep cool-for your child's sake." "Oh, what is it, what is it?" wailed the woman, wildly; I knew it-I feared it. Tell me the worst, quick! Is my child-where is my darling boy?" "Madam," replied the cross-eyed man, gently, “ I but this moment saw a little boy playing upon the railroad track; as I looked upon him he seemed to be—” “Oh, dear! oh, dear!" screamed the woman, wringing her hands; "tell me the worst. Is he-" "He seemed to be daubing himself with oil," continued the cross-eyed man, quickly drawing a bottle from his pocket, "and I've got here the best thing in the worldLightning Grease Eradicator-only twenty-five cents a bottle, warranted-" There was a broom standing behind the door, and with one blow she knocked his tall hat over his eyes, and with another waved him off the steps and through the gate. And as the cross-eyed man moved swiftly up the street she shook the broom at him, looking for all the world like an ancient god of mythology with a passion-distorted face and highly excited red arms. THE FLIGHT OF THE GODS.-ADELAIDE Biddles. "Tis said that when the gods flew from the earth, Love stayed behind, self exiled for man's sake." -From the German. Upon their tree-crowned hill the gods reclined, And gazed in sadness on the sunlit earth; Then from her torch Religion quenched the flame, Upon her withered branch, sad Peace then gazed, Shrouded from light by the dark cypress gloom. Then said Humility with dovelike tones, Then Love arose, with soft, imploring look, By Peace, Humility, and Hope forsook, To brood in silence o'er the cold gravestone; To meet, unfriended, misery and death; The blood-stained scaffold and the blazing stake; I'll float no more upon the zephyr's breath, But here remain self-exiled for man's sake." Then sadness fell upon the spirit band; With gentle tones they prayed him not remain,— NNNNN "Oh, float with us into yon cloud-built land, And list the music of our seraph strain, But stay not in this land of death and gloom, Where hearts will wither up like autumn leaves, Let's roam where heaven's bowers unfading bloom, And crown our brows with amaranthine wreaths." He softly said, "From hence I will not haste, But stay to lull the pain of sin's fierce dart, Yo guide the pilgrim o'er life's dreary waste, And rear my temple in each human heart. Should you e'er seck me in this lowly life, And quit your starry homes amid the air, And silent sleeps beneath the daisied sod, THE AGED PRISONER. "Nigh on to twenty years Have I walked up and down this dingy cell! "With every gray-white rock I am acquainted; every seam and crack, "My little blue-eyed babe, That I left singing by my cottage door, "Oh, this bitter food That I must live on! this poisoned thought That judges all my kind, because by men "If they had killed me then, By rope, or rack, or any civil mode "Plucked at my hair Bleached of all color, pale and thin and dead- Pass funerals of dead hopes. "To-morrow I go out! Where shall I go? what friend have I to meet? An old man, bent and gray, Paused at the threshold of a cottage door. He stretched his wasted hands-then drew them back A comely, tender face Looked from the casement; pitying all God's poor, Fell prostrate at her feet. "O child!" he sobbed, "now I can die. When last Her words came falteringly: "Are you the man-who broke my mother's heart? No! no! O father,-speak! Look up-forget!" Then came a stony calm. Some hearts are broken with joy-some break with grief The old gray man was dead. LITTLE ALLIE.-FANNY FERN. The day was gloomy and chill. At the freshly-opened grave stood a little, delicate girl of five years, the only mourner for the silent heart beneath. Friendless, hopeless, homeless, she had wept till she had no more tears to shed, and now she stood, with her scanty clothing fluttering in the chill wind, pressing her little hands tightly over her heart, as if to still its beating. 66 "It's no use fretting," said the rough man, as he stamped the last shovelful of earth over all the child had left to love. Fretting won't bring dead folks to life. Pity you hadn't. got no ship's cousins somewheres to take you. It's a tough world, this 'ere, I tell ye. I don't see how ye're going t weather it. Guess I'll take ye round to Miss Fetherbee's; she's got a power of children, and wants a hand to help her; so come along. If you cry enough to float the ark, t won't do you no good." Allie qbeyed him mechanically, turning her head every few minutes to take another look where her mother lay buried. The morning sun shone in upon an underground kitchen in the crowded city. Mrs. Fetherbee, attired in a gaycolored calico dress, with any quantity of tinsel jewelry, sat sewing some showy cotton lace on a cheap pocket-handkerchief. A boy of five years was disputing with a little girl of three about an apple; from big words they had come to hard blows, and peace was finally declared at the price of an orange apiece and a stick of candy-each combatant "putting in" for the biggest. Poor Allie, with pale cheeks and swollen eyelids, was staggering up and down the floor under the weight of a mammoth baby, who was amusing himself by pulling out at intervals little handfuls of her hair. "Quiet that child, can't ye?" said Mrs. Fetherbee, in no very gentle tone. "I don't wonder the darling is cross to see such a solemn face. You must get a little life into you somehow, or you won't earn the salt to your porridge here. There, I declare, you've half put his eyes out with those long curls, dangling round. Come here, and have 'em cut |